![]() What began as a deejay adapting to a new crowd in a new land became a deejay calling out to the crowd in slang-driven, sing-song rhymes: “Yo, this deejay Markie D, in the place to be, spinning the records for everybody.” The crowd would respond to these syncopated rhymes (emceeing), and the party would start to sweat with zoned-out dancers (break boys, or B-boys) who were captivated by the driving rhythms. ![]() The breaks contained the organic, mesmerizing drums of a traditional African festival, but that sound-hard, energetic, young-resounded perfectly against the cool concrete walls of the inner-city block. ![]() This deejaying technique produced an intense, drum-heavy, hardcore new sound. He played breaks from each record using two identical records (when one break ended, he switched with his mixer to the next break before the song lost its climax). With two turntables and a mixer that allows the deejay to switch quickly and seamlessly from record to record, he decided to cut the breaks-the short, heavily percussive and climactic parts of a song-from hard-funk, Latin and rock ’n’ roll records. But Campbell, who called himself DJ Kool Herc (after his grade-school nickname “Hercules”), adapted quickly to the crowd’s preferences. New Yorkers, however, weren’t all that into reggae. Send your answers to or “Name da playas,” SN&R, 1015 20th Street, Sacramento, CA 95811.Īs the story goes, a Jamaican kid by the name of Clive Campbell moved from Kingston to the Bronx where he would try his hand at deejaying, incorporating reggae into his sets. Recognize all these playas? First reader to correctly name all 31 faces wins a prize to be announced, probably dinner at some restaurant or something. But modern rap-the rap we think of today that blares from car speakers and headphones, that changes the way people speak and dress-really jumped off in the 1970s. The griots were poets-tale spinners who utilized wit and topical knowledge to entertain and captivate a crowd, much like a modern-day rapper would. Some actually trace rap music back to the 1800s with the West African griots, or bards. The intake of the hip-hop movement in Sacramento was slow, but when it hit, it hit hard. He watched and listened closely to what was going on in the East Coast on television and videos. Instead of watching Sesame Street, little Kelly was processing this new hip-hop culture that was starting to take shape in New York City. He sat, day after day, in his family’s North Highlands living room with his eyes glued to the television set. Eventually, the River City would play a major role in the worldwide hip-hop movement, peaking in the 1990s with hardcore gangster-rap artists like Brother Lynch Hung, X-Raided and C-Bo in one arena and more socially conscious, party-vibe artists like the CUF, Socialistik and Blackalicious in the other.īut, in the beginning-1980-there was just 10-year-old Julian Kelly. In Sacramento, rap music goes as far back as 1980, when local kids began monitoring the East Coast hip-hop movement. As Weezy raps, Auto-Tune distorts his voice into a synthesized, robotic warble images of stacks of money flash across the giant screen behind him and, as an explosion from the stage curls into a miniature mushroom cloud, one can’t help but wonder: How did we get here? As Weezy slaps his voluptuous dancer’s ass, two white teenage males in the audience take off their shirts and dance rhythmlessly against the beat. Inside the nearly sold-out arena, the mass of mostly Caucasian teens is abuzz with hormonal energy-the girls wearing two sizes too tight and the boys three too big. Some say that Weezy’s approach to rap music-his eagerness to embrace America’s obsession with violence, misogyny and currency-is the antithesis of genuine hip-hop, the grassroots culture that was crafted by poverty, creativity and the desire of urban youth to express themselves in a new way.īut whatever your take on what hip-hop is or isn’t, it can’t be argued that Arco Arena tonight isn’t impressive. Weezy’s cantankerous, stream-of-unconsciousness (“Fuck you, nigga, mothafuck you,” he snarls on the aptly titled “Fuck You”) earned him four Grammy awards this year and enough international media attention to make Paris Hilton jealous. As the security guard waves the metal detector over their clothing, one of the men asks with a certain belligerent innocence, “Hey, you seen any bitches around here?” The security guard snickers, and then ushers the men through to the arena, where New Orleans’ Lil Wayne, a.k.a. In the parking lot, a group of young black men, maybe in their late 20s, wearing colorful basketball jerseys, do-rags and baggy jeans, walks toward the security entrance with the forceful swagger of a crew that’s been raised by the hands of hip-hop. ![]()
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